by Michael Sims
In the shade of a heavy bush at the opposite side of this still, deep waterhole, there was the faint outline of a crouching human figure, an outline so faint and so shrouded in the obscurity of the faulty plate, that very likely no eye but that of a detective would have observed it, and it is more than probable that the poor lad whose art had fixed it in its place was quite unaware of its being there; but by the aid of a powerful microscope I made it out distinctly. We all know with what perfectness to every line of its object the camera fixes its light copies, even in the greatest failures as to perfect shading and tone, and there I had this crouching and malignant looking face peering from behind a shadowy bush, as recognisable as if he had been photographed in a Collins Street or George Street studio. Steadily I set to work reproducing this hiding figure, magnifying and photographing by aid of the good camera the young artist had left behind, and I succeeded at length in completing a likeness quite clear enough for my purpose; so after taking possession of the plate holding the view of the bush waterhole, I put it and my likeness into my pocket, and locking up the room, once more sought the camp.
The likeness of the missing youth himself was given to me by the landlady of the public-house; he had given it to her a few days before he took his last walk in search of subjects for his art. Poor fellow! he was very handsome and very youthful looking; a white, sickly, noble face, with large black eyes, and a profusion of curly black hair forming a frame to a high broad forehead. I felt sick at heart as I looked at it and thought of his empty home and the red pool of blood on Minarra station.
It was late in the day when I got thus far in my search, and I was rather glad that my young squatter acquaintance did not turn up at Kooama that evening, as he had intimated an intention of doing, for I was likely to require his assistance, and did not care to trust his young gossiping propensities with my secrets any longer than was absolutely necessary.
Early on the following morning, however, he rode up to the camp, and I so arranged that we should be left alone together. “I don’t know your name, my young friend,” I was commencing, when he interrupted me.
“My name is Derrick—Thomas Derrick.”
“Well, Mr. Derrick, I am sure I need not tell you upon what a serious job I am engaged, nor that it is in your interest, as well as that of the public at large, that no crime should go unpunished, all this you know as well as I do, but what you do not know as well as I do, my dear fellow, is how very little will interfere with a search such as mine, and give a criminal a chance of escaping with impunity. All this I tell you because I am going to ask your assistance, and to beg that while you are affording it to me you will keep as secret as the grave anything that may pass between us until I accomplish my object, or fail in the endeavour to do so.”
The young man promised faithful secrecy, and then I laid the picture of the bush waterhole before him.
“Is there any such place as that on your run?”
“To be sure there is; it’s in Minarra Creek, about half a mile from where we found the flock.”
“I thought it likely, and now I am almost sure you will be able to tell me who that is,” and I handed him my copy of the hiding figure. He looked very much astonished, but replied immediately—
“It’s Dick the Devil!”
“And who is Dick the Devil?”
“A crusty, cantankerous old wretch, one of our shepherds. Do you think he’s in it!”
“Oh, of course, we are all abroad as to that yet. Where does this Dick live, and what does he do?”
“He minds a flock, and lives at an out-hut ten miles from the home station.”
“Alone, or has he a hutkeeper?”
“Well, he’s by himself this long time, he had two or three hut-keepers, but at last we were obliged to give it up—no one would live with him.”
“Could you manage to get me in there as hutkeeper without exciting his suspicion.”
“You! of course I could, he’s always growling about not having one, but you could never stand it.”
“No fear of me, it won’t be for long at any rate.”
Fancy me that same afternoon metamorphosed into a seedy, tired looking coon, accompanying the young squatter to Dick’s hut, where he was going, or appeared to be obliged to go at any rate, with rations in a spring cart. Dick was within sight, letting his flock feed quietly foldwards, and his young employer led me to him.
“Now, you old growler, I hope you’re satisfied! Here’s a hutkeeper for you, and I hope you’ll keep your ugly temper quiet for one week at any rate.”
I should have recognised my man anywhere, sure enough; the villainous scowling face of the hider in the photograph was before me, and so determined a looking scoundrel I had not seen for a long time, familiar as I was with criminals. He was an elderly man—about fifty perhaps—low sized, and strongly built; his years told on him in a slight stoop, and grizzled, coarse hair, that but added to his rascally appearance, and his character was but too plainly traced in his low, repulsive forehead, and heavy, dark beetling brows. I could have almost sworn he was an old hand the moment I set eyes on him.
“Thank ye for nothing, Tom,” was his impudently given reply, “you didn’t send to town for a hutkeeper for me, I’ll swear.”
“Well, you’re about right. I met him as I was coming over with your rations, and as the poor fellow looked tired and hard up, I thought I’d give you another trial.”
“You be d——d,” was Dick the Devil’s thanks, as the young fellow turned away with a “Well, so long, mate!” to me.
“Well,” said my new mate, turning to me, “if you’ll give me a hand to round up the flock, I’ll get ’em all the sooner in, and then we can have a good yarn. I’m d——d if I’m not glad to see a fellow’s face again, curse such a life as this, I say!”
“ ’Tis a slow one, I’m blessed if it ain’t,” I replied, doing as he wished; “have you no dog?”
“No, I haven’t,” he snapped out at me like a pistol shot, with such a look, half of terror and half of suspicion, that I was convinced about his dog there was something more to be learned.
After the billy was slung and the tea boiled, and the mutton and damper disposed of, Dick and I sat down in the still calm twilight outside the bush hut, and while puffing out volumes of tobacco smoke from dirty, black pipes managed to mutually interest ourselves, I dare say.
“Things are looking d——bad in the country now, mate,” rapped out Dick.
“You may say it,” I replied, “I’ve tramped over many a hundred miles without the chance of a job.”
“Where did you come from last?”
“Oh! I came from everywhere between this and Beechworth! I stopped at Kooama last night, there’s a devil of a talk there about some murder.”
“Murder!” said Dick, with a sort of gasp, and a short quick look at me, “what murder?”
“Some poor devil of a painter or picter-man, or something of that sort.”
“Oh, d——them ! they don’t know he’s murdered.”
“I see you’ve heard about it then. Yes, I believe you’re right. I think he’s only missing, and they guess he’s made away with.”
“Let them guess and be d——d to them!” said the hardened wretch, and I thought fit to drop the subject.
“Oh, my lad!” thought I to myself, “if you only guessed who is sitting beside you, and what his object is here, wouldn’t there be another pool of red blood under some tree in the Australian forest, eh?” And then I looked at my neighbour’s muscular frame and determined criminal countenance, wondering in a battle for life and death between us should I be able to come off victor. Certainly, I could at any moment lay my hand upon my trusty revolver, and dexterity and self-possession might accomplish much with the handcuffs, but let a fellow be ever so little of a coward, he must feel a little at being so entirely isolated and so self-dependent as I was at this moment. Far out before us lay miles of almost level grass, dotted with tall-stemmed trees and patches of undergro
wth. There wasn’t a living soul within miles and not a sound save as night fell the scream of the distant curlew, that came, I guessed, from the vicinity of the black waterhole in the Minarra Creek, and I could not help picturing to myself the stillness of that night-gloomed water, its heavy, overhanging foliage, and the white mangled face that perhaps lay below it. Altogether I was not sorry that Dick showed no disposition to prolong the conversation, but soon turned in, and I followed his example, not, however, without placing my revolver under my hand, and when I did sleep it was, as the saying is, with one eye open.
According to a concerted arrangement between me and my young assistant, the very earliest morning brought him to the hut at full gallop. His greeting to Dick was rather abrupt.
“What the devil’s the reason you’re running your flock up to the rock springs every day, Dick? Connel complains you don’t leave him half enough for his sheep, and here’s a waterhole close under your nose.”
“Well, the cursed flock always head up that way, they’re used to it, and it’s d——hard work to turn a thirsty mob when you’ve got no dog, in fact, it’s onpossible.”
“What the deuce have you done with your dog? You had a first rater.”
“Done with him?” replied Dick, vindictively, “cut his throat! He was always giving me twice the work with his playin’ up!”
“Well, you’ll have to get another somewhere, at any rate take the flock to Minarra waterhole in future.”
“I can’t myself,” was the response.
“Your mate will lend you a hand for a day or two, as the water is not far away, and the flock will soon get used to it.”
I had been watching Dick as closely as I could, without being noticed by him, during this colloquy, and could easily see that he was much dissatisfied with this arrangement, but he could make no excuse, as the want of water was beginning to be complained of on all the surrounding runs, and so we headed the flock in the direction of Minarra waterhole. There was no opportunity for conversation on the way, as Dick and I were far apart, and the sheep were feeding quietly all the way; but when we neared the water, and the flock—which, by the way, showed no anxiety whatever to go in any other direction—had mob by mob satisfied their thirst, and were scattering out over the near pasture, I approached the water-hole, and, sitting down in almost the very spot where poor young Willis must have placed his camera to take the view I had in my pocket, I took out my pipe and commenced cutting tobacco for the purpose of filling it. All the time the sheep were drinking I could see that Dick was very uneasy. He kept away entirely, but when he saw me taking it so coolly he drew up slowly.
“D——queer place to sit down, that,” he said, “you’ll be ate up with mosquitoes.”
“No fear,” I answered, “I’m thinking the mosquitoes have something more to their liking to eat down there.”
“Down where?”
“Oh! about the water! What a devil of a lot of ugly things must be down at the bottom there, Dick! It’s very deep.”
I couldn’t see the wretch, but I fancied his face was growing pale, and although I daren’t look at him, neither durst I trust myself with my back to him, so, affecting an air of nonchalance I was far from feeling, I got up and faced him while I affected to be searching in my pocket for matches, my hand in reality clutching the revolver.
“I wonder if that picter-man ever took this place?” I added, “it would look first rate.”
Dick’s face flushed up with fury, he could stand the strain no longer.
“D——the picter man!” he roared, “what the ——are you always talkin’ about him for?”
I looked at him with affected surprise. “You get in a blessed pelter over it, mate! Anyone but me would be suspicious that you’d done it yourself!”
“And if I did ——to you?” he said, with a face fearful in its hardened ferocity. “And if I did, you couldn’t prove it—you’ve no witnesses!”
While he was saying this, half a dozen bubbles rose to the surface of the water directly in front of us, followed by more and more, and I do not know to this day what unaccountable influence it was that as Dick ceased speaking urged me to seize him by the wrist, and while pointing to the bubbles before him with the other hand, to whisper in reply, “Haven’t I?—Look!” For, of course, I had no more expectation of the awful scene that followed than has my reader at this moment.
A fearful, dripping thing rose to the surface—a white, ghastly face followed—and then, up—up—waist high out of the water, rose the corpse of the murdered artist!
It remained for a second or two standing, as it were, before us, with glaring, wide open eyeballs turned towards the bank on which we stood, and then, with a horrible plump, the body fell backward, the feet rose to the top, and there the terrible thing lay face upward—staring up, one might fancy, to the heavens, calling for justice on the murderer!
As I saw this awful sight, my grasp on Dick’s wrist relaxed, although unconsciously I still pointed toward the white dripping terror; until it settled, as I have attempted to describe, and then Dick the Devil, with a wild cry that I shall never forget, threw both his hands up to his head and fell heavily to the ground.
To tell you how I felt in these few moments is impossible. I was horrorstruck. In all my experience of fearful and impressive sights, I never felt so completely stunned and awed. But it did not last long with me, for, of course, reason soon came to assure me that it required no supernatural agency to cause a corpse to rise from the bottom to the top of a waterhole, although the accounting for the way in which it had thus arisen would not be so simple.
With but a glance at the prostrate form of the insensible wretch beside me, I fired off one barrel of my revolver as a signal to young Derrick, who had promised to hang about, and I had soon the satisfaction of hearing in reply the echoed report of that young man’s well given stock whip, and it was not long before he came galloping down to the side of the hole.
It may be supposed that this young fellow felt even more horrified than even I, more accustomed to deaths and murders, had done, and after I had shortly explained to him how matters stood, I do not think we had two opinions about the guilt of the still insensible old miserable. Be that as it may, I was heartless and unfeeling enough to handcuff him, even while he was unconscious, not choosing to risk an attempt at escape. And then we sprinkled water over him, and used all the means within our power for the purpose of restoring him. At length he sat up, but his first glance falling again on the floating corpse, he struggled to his feet, crying,
“Oh, my God! Take me out of this! Let me out of this!”
And, one on each side of him—he partly leading—we followed him three or four hundred yards, where, under the shade of a tree, he sat down weak as a child.
“I can’t go any farther,” he said. “You’ll have to take me to the camp in a cart.”
“Where’s all your bounce now, mate?” I could not help inquiring, as I handed him a drop of grog out of a flask I carried.
He put it tremblingly to his lips and drained it, and then, with a heavily-drawn breath, replied, “It’s in h—!”
This was awful, but he did not give us time to think for he immediately, and without any encouragement, added, “I’m goin’ to tell you all about that lot while I’m able, for I feel all rotten like!”—and then he added again—“like him, down below.”
We did not speak, either of us, and he went on—“One day, that chap came pictering up yonder, and my dog playin’ up as usual, runnin’ the sheep wrong, he got me in a pelter, and I outs with my knife and cut his b——throat! The young picter chap sees me, and runs to try and save the dog; but he was too late, and he ups and told me I was a villain, and a cruel wretch, and all sorts, and I told him I’d cut his too if he gave me any more of his jaw, and when he went away I swore I’d be revenged on the cheeky pup. I watched him that day down at the Minarra waterhole, but couldn’t get a good chance, and then he went home to Kooama. Well, about a week after, he was
pictering down yonder.”
Here he pointed in the direction of the blood marks, and I nodded, saying, “I know.”
“You know!” he said, turning to me with something of his old ferocity, “how the ——do you know anything about it!”
“I know all about it,” I said in reply, “I will finish your story for you and when I go wrong, you can set me right.”
He looked at me stupidly—wonderingly. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I am Brooke, the detective.”
“Oh!” Dick the Devil drew a hard breath.
“Well, he was taking views with his camera near that tree there, where you covered the blood up with the bushes—you know, and you stole behind him—”
“Yes,” interrupted Dick, “when his head was under that black rag.”
“And you struck him with something that stunned him.”
“It was a waddy,” said Dick.
“And the blow struck the camera also, capsized it, and broke it to shivers.”
“Just so!” added the wretch, a hideous glee lighting up his ferocious countenance, “and then I took out my clasp knife and nagged his pipe, just as I did the dog’s, and I asked him how he liked it, but he couldn’t tell me!”
“Oh, you awful devil!” cried young Derrick, whose face I had remarked becoming paler and paler until I gave him a nobbler too, or I positively believe the poor fellow would have fainted.